


A Portrait of Grief

by Elind



Category: Tricksters - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Late Night Conversations, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 15:34:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8922685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elind/pseuds/Elind
Summary: Taybur would like a little sleep, but his charges haven't all settled yet. And some things can really only be said in the wee hours of the morning.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aedifica (millefolia)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/millefolia/gifts).



> Treat story. Thank you to mlraven for the beta. Any errors or weak spots remaining are mine, probably added during the last edits.

Taybur Sibigat walked along the path quietly. It would have startled many of the court if they knew how silently he could move, even in his armor. It would not do so tonight, however; most of the court had sought their beds, even given the long festivities after the coronation, and the rest were largely inside. Winter was not as unwelcoming as he'd heard it could be in some lands, but it was certainly not the season best suited for post-midnight strolls.

Most of the court, but not all. He lifted a hand and signaled to the guards he was sure were there. As expected, one of the tree-shaped shadows sprouted an arm that signaled back. He turned off the path, making his way toward the bench at the edge of the water. The bench would be as wet as the pond it overlooked after the rain earlier, but that hadn't stopped Duchess Winnamine from settling on it. He scuffed a foot lightly in the dirt, not wanting to surprise that "maid" of hers who stood behind her. An extra guard, and one he didn't control, though they were not at odds - as long as they knew it was him approaching. The gardeners were _not_ helpful to him here. They had cleaned out all the little twigs and leaves that were down, recently enough that he had only damp earth to scuff with. It took a second, harder movement, before the woman turned to glance his way. He was not surprised that the turn looked casual; he was not surprised at the tension in her body that said she was ready to move, far more than her mannerisms otherwise implied.

He was a little surprised that the Duchess did not turn, but after a moment, her maid said softly, "Captain Sibigat."

It was enough for the Duchess to quietly dismiss her maid back toward the guards along the path and gesture him forward - all of which she did without standing or turning her head. Interesting: she did not owe him that social nicety, especially not in these circumstances, but she was exquisitely polite. She was certainly politically astute: it may not have been that which put her daughter on the throne, but without it their entire family might have been killed several times over. Either politeness or politic scheming would normally have accorded him a little more courtesy than he was technically owed, and he was curious at the omission.

"Taybur." Her voice was low, steady and polite. 

He crossed to stand in front of her instead of behind. "Duchess." He faced her and bowed, taking advantage of the expected courtesy to look her over. He was not entirely surprised to find that parts of her face glittered in the distant lamp-light rather more than they should. It explained the lapse in courtesy; humanity had its place, as well. He straightened up and turned back toward the water, clasping his hands behind his back, stepping to the side and back so that he stood nearby but not in front of her. "You're up late."

The silence that followed was full of the words she didn't say, until she found something she was comfortable with. "I am. It's been a busy day. The quiet is pleasant here."

She was too careful a woman, and that had been too long a pause, for those words to be anything but a deliberate dig at the man who invaded her quiet. He found he didn't begrudge her that; he would dearly like to lock himself in his room for a few hours, the same impulse given slightly different form. At the rate this season was going, and assuming he wanted the door to stay un-pounded-on the whole while, he might have a chance to do that by about early summer. Perhaps.

That she had managed it tonight was a small miracle, and he was intruding on it. And intended to continue doing so.

"It is." He let that sit for a moment, but she didn't rise to the bait and fill the silence. "Your guard shift has swapped out, but perhaps your maid might like some rest tonight."

Winnamine's head bowed, just slightly. For a moment, he thought she might simply rise and leave, but as her head stayed bowed, he allowed himself the faintest of frowns. His impression of her was of a woman who did not show weakness unless it served a purpose, and he wasn't sure what purpose it would serve, here. Not half as clever as young Aly, but as capable in her own way, and more measured. He was trying to decide whether he cared enough to continue to push when she said softly, "It was a lovely coronation, and a perfect celebration."

"It was." Technically, he lied. It was not a perfect celebration. He was aware of several young hot-heads who had to be separated, and a few people who had to be assisted back to their rooms to sleep off one or another of the indulgences. He didn't think she was interested in the details, and he wanted to see where the conversation led - because he didn't understand why she was having it with him. He had a pretty good idea what was on her mind. But would she speak of it? Or was she going somewhere else with this?

If Dovasary's word could be believed - and considering that she could simply have had him killed, or have forced him to swear in blood, he rather thought it could - she trusted him. But the Duchess her step-mother? He had no idea where he stood with this worthy lady, and he would be as much a fool to ignore her influence on his Queen as he would be to ignore Aly's. Not that Aly could be ignored; Duchess Winnamine, on the other hand, was practiced at it when it suited her. Now, for example, when he was lost in thought while waiting for her to fill the silence. Clearly, she was not going to oblige.

"Tomorrow," he tried, "is going to be a busy day. It is not so far off. Are you nearly ready to return? Or is there someone I should tell, to send someone else out to you?"

Another long silence passed, but this time he forced himself to listen to it and count it, not think. He was just about to speak again when she answered. "I don't know. No. I should go in." She stayed seated, however, and after a moment, she said, "I wish it had not been. She's so young to have to carry this. And I can't ever look at that crown without--" She stopped there.

Silence was safest. But he thought that perhaps, here, they had something in common. Silence was safest, but it wasn't kindest, or easiest. And after a second he yielded to it and asked softly, "Without remembering that there should be someone in her way, a challenge to her rule?"

She looked up at him; in the low light, he couldn't see her expression well enough to judge it. "Two challenges, even. Imajane and Rubinyan were destroying things. But the boys...the boys, no."

He closed his eyes then. If she could offer him that much vulnerability - the words were enough, whether or not her expression would have given away more - then at this hour, he would let the mask slip a small bit too. Perhaps they could be friends, not merely allies. Perhaps.... "You know," he said quietly, having heard the roughness in her voice, "I wish I had needed to meet you as an enemy that day. I think I might have lost. But I still wish. I can at least pretend she would have let him live. Maybe gone ahead with that ridiculous marriage proposal."

The tears were sliding down his cheeks despite his closed eyes, and he heard her stand and take the step, felt her hand on his upper arm. "I'm not sure what the raka would have done," she replied. "But I think she might have. If he had lived - she had nothing against him. If ... if they had all lived, it would have been her one chance to save her brother, I think. I wish we'd had to solve that problem."

He used his free hand to shift her arm to his elbow, and wiped at his face. "As do I. I will serve her, as faithfully as I promised. Rubinyan and Imajane deserved their endings. They deserved worse. But I don't believe I will ever look around without thinking of what he loved, of things he did." He swallowed. The silence lingered, and he let it for a long moment. The conversation had been more open than he had intended originally, so he switched back to social formula. "I cannot recall if I said it then. I am sorry for your loss."

"And I for yours," she replied, and her voice was also steady and formal.

The moment passed, shoved under by the change of tone, and he turned to walk her back to the palace. Guards fell in ahead and behind, and her maid. If anyone noticed the signs of tears, or had heard any part of the conversation, they were wise enough not to show it.


End file.
